


The Dying of the Light

by SirLancelotTheBrave



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: (guess which one I had in mind while writing it), Character Death, Gore, Violence, could be read as slash or gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 01:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3271598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SirLancelotTheBrave/pseuds/SirLancelotTheBrave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this prompt from the kink meme: Someone - or more than one - willingly sacrifices themselves so that others can live. Something along the lines of "save yourself I'll hold them back" or a door that can only be locked from the wrong side that has to be secured. Bonus points for heartbreaking conversation between the one(s) who is/are going to die and the ones who are going to live (or just the ones who will die) when both parties know what will happen but are powerless to change it (eg from either side of a locked gate or something).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This is probably the angstiest thing I have ever written. I managed to traumatize myself with my own fic. Someone already filled this prompt, but it was back in August (which was actually when I wrote this) so I think I'm okay to fill it again.

They pounded through the tunnel, torches casting flickering shadows across the slimy walls. The sounds of pursuit echoed from behind them, getting closer as they stumbled through the knee deep muck. D'Artagnan led them, arms above his head to keep the plans from the clinging mud, but Aramis could see the boy was tiring, and there was no other with the strength left to take his place.

"We ain't gonna make it," Porthos croaked, giving voice to his fears. Athos ignored him, urging D'Artagnan on as he hurried behind him, left arm pulled close to his body to keep from jostling the break.

"Athos, we're not going to make it," Aramis repeated, stumbling again in the muck as his leg gave out for the dozenth time. Porthos tried to catch him, hauling him along despite the obvious pain on his face. Three of his ribs were broken, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side. They hadn't had time to reset his dislocated shoulder.

"You must move faster," Athos snapped curtly, not looking back. "Keep going, D'Artagnan. They mustn't get the plans, or France could fall."

"I can't move faster," Aramis cried angrily, frustrated with his own weakness even as he felt himself slowing further. Porthos's hand on his arm was all that was keeping him upright. Blood trailed from the deep slash in his thigh to mix with the muck and slime.

"We can make it," Athos said furiously, whirling around to glare at him. Ahead, D'Artagnan paused, watching them uncertainly. "Don't stop!" Athos shouted.

Aramis stared him down, catching the flicker of fear in the blue eyes. "Athos. I won't make it," he said shrugging helplessly. "You know it as well as I."

"No," Porthos growled, stepping forward menacingly. "Shut up, Aramis. I'll carry you if I have to."

"With a dislocated shoulder?" Aramis asked, smiling sadly. "Not even you could manage that, _mon cher_."

"Both of you will be silent this fucking instant!" Athos hissed, the urgency robbing him of his polished speech. "There's a gate ahead. If we close it behind us, they cannot follow. I don't want to hear another word about anyone being left behind."

The sounds of pursuit drew ever nearer, and Athos didn't wait for a reply. He shoved D'Artagnan ahead of him and hurried forward while Porthos hauled Aramis after them. Aramis tried to focus on the light of Athos's torch and not the sickening feeling in his head as his lifeblood leaked into the mud.

Aramis lasted only another minute before he collapsed, feeling slime squelching against his bleeding leg, the bandage long since unwound and trampled underfoot. Porthos cursed and hauled him upright, pulling the injury from the muck.

"Now it'll get infected," he growled, ignoring Aramis's protests as he slung his arm around his shoulders.

Aramis didn't have the heart to tell him he'd be dead long before infection set in. Let him hope for as long as he was able. Aramis knew the truth, and he knew somewhere inside, Athos did as well.

This was a killing wound.

"There!" D'Artagnan called excitedly from around the next corner, relief a tangible presence in his voice, and Porthos charged through the sludge, dragging Aramis along to see the youngest Musketeer ducking beneath the lower edge of the round gate hanging from the ceiling above, already half closed.

"How do I close it?" he asked, grunting when Athos ducked under and shoved him aside.

"There should be a switch," Athos muttered. Aramis could hear him running his hands along the wall. "It'll seal the tunnel until the corresponding switch is flipped above."

"Go and help," Aramis murmured, shoving Porthos in their direction as he braced himself against the wall beside the half closed gate. If it shut now, he would be trapped on the wrong side.

He leaned back against the grimy stones, feeling the absence of his hat like the loss of a limb. It was lying behind them somewhere, no doubt trampled and soiled beyond all recognition.

Aramis tapped his fingers against the wall, listening to the muttered curses from the other side of the hanging gate. He could just see his brother's legs and boots, their torsos hidden by the thick stone.

Then his fingers slid against something that wasn't slime or crumbling brick. This was metal, rusty and barely visible when he looked down at it, but metal.

He had found the switch.

On the wrong side of the gate.

He opened his mouth to call out to the others and tell them of his discovery, but something made him pause. If he told the others, Athos would insist on staying behind and closing the gate, trapping him with their angry pursuers.

Athos would die.

Aramis's leg pulsed with pain, reminding him that he was already lost. He would not let another fall in his stead. If someone had to die to protect France's future, it would be him.

There was no time for goodbyes. Taking a deep breath, he choked out, "I'm sorry," and wrenched the rusty lever with all his strength.

He heard Athos cry a question and D'Artagnan yell in horror when the gate creaked and began to descend, but the worst noise was the sudden squelching of mud and slime as Porthos threw himself beneath the gate, narrowly avoiding being crushed as it slammed down, separating them from Athos and D'Artagnan.

Aramis dropped to his knees, sinking into the mud, hands pressing against his eyes as he tried to deny what he had seen.

Porthos, on the wrong side of the gate.

Porthos was going to die with him.

"No!" he shouted, surging to his feet once more with an unexpected burst of strength. "No! You cannot do this. It was my sacrifice to make!" He slammed his fists against Porthos's right arm, careful even in his hopeless fury not to injure him farther. "How could you do this to me? You are forcing me to watch you die!"

"You were gonna force me to leave you behind!" Porthos snarled, catching his wrists. "Make me walk away, knowing you were dyin' in here, alone! You don't get to ask that of me, Aramis! We go, we go together."

Aramis gazed at him helplessly, knees giving out as his fury burned away as fast as it had come. Porthos caught him, keeping him upright. The sounds of pursuit had slowed at the crash of the gate, but now they drew closer, and Aramis could see the flickering of approaching torches.

"They're coming," he whispered, fumbling for his pistol.

Porthos nodded grimly. "Aye. But there's a minute or two yet." He reached out and stilled Aramis's frantic movements, his hand a comforting weight on Aramis's own.

"The way I see it, I can't watch you die, and you can't watch me die, so we'll just have to kill 'em all," Porthos said with forced lightness. "Then we just sit pretty until Athos picks us up."

Aramis nodded, clinging to the false hope. He knew he was dead, but maybe, just maybe, if they fought hard enough, Porthos could make it.

"Hey," Porthos said softly, one hand rising to rest warmly against the back of his neck, curling around to pull him nearer. "It was a good run, eh?"

"The best," Aramis murmured, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Think Athos'll ever forgive us?"

The lightness of a moment before was gone now. Porthos's dark eyes were deadly serious. "No," he admitted bluntly. "But I wouldn'ta done anything different. 'M glad he got away."

"Me too," Aramis whispered. "Wish you had gone with him."

Porthos chuckled, and the sound was honest in spite of the tears pricking his eyes. "You had to know I was never gonna let you die alone."

Aramis smiled sadly, meeting his gaze. "I thought we weren't going to die."

Porthos didn't respond. His hand tightened until Aramis leaned forward, resting his forehead against Aramis's own.

"Porthos?"

"Mmm?"

He couldn't say the words. It would make it too real, too hopeless. So he murmured, "Miss you," and heard Porthos's watery chuckle in return.

"Yeah," Porthos breathed, hand almost painfully tight. "Miss you too."

Torchlight exploded upon them as their pursuers finally rounded the corner. Porthos's hand dropped to his blade at the same moment as Aramis's, preparing for what was to come.

They didn't pull apart until the last possible moment.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos couldn't remember what happened between the time the gate slammed shut, cutting him off from his brothers, and the moment his feet hit the tunnel once more. The time had passed in a haze of shock and pain and utter, absolute disbelief.

They couldn't be gone.

He vaguely remembered D'Artagnan passing Treville the plans. Someone had bound his broken arm in a sling, but he had no concrete memory of that. He could remember Treville ordering them to stay put until the King was secure. He recalled the pain in D'Artagnan's voice as he tried to push past a pale Constance, begging him not to go back alone, but Athos couldn't wait. With every bit of authority in him, he'd ordered D'Artagnan not to follow him and left the boy in Constance's hands.

And then he'd come back here to find the men his brothers.

More than once, his feet caught in the tunnel's muck. He propelled himself forward, clutching his torch in his injured hand, refusing to give into the exhaustion hounding him.

He had to know.

An oddly shaped lump in the middle of the tunnel caught his eye. Athos leaned dangerously away from the wall and scooped it up, staring at the familiar object.

It was Aramis's hat.

The feather was missing and the entire thing was coated in mud, flattened as if it had been trampled. Athos's hand trembled and he flung it away from him as if it were some poisonous creature.

It sank back beneath the mud in moments.

Athos pressed on, refusing to think about the hat, refusing to think about anything other than the fact that he had to reach the gate. He had to know.

When he finally turned the corner, the vision that greeted him was straight out of his worst nightmares.

A dozen men lay sprawled in the muck, the mud beneath them more red than brown now. Athos stared blankly at the carnage. Had they killed them all? Was it possible they were still alive?

Athos jammed the torch into a sconce on the wall and began to search.

Hope was a burning brand in his chest as he forced his legs to move, stepping forward. The mud covered everything, blurring details, and he found himself having to look closely at every body, ashamed at his own inability to distinguish his brothers.

Athos was almost at the gate when he dropped to his knees, trembling hand reaching out to touch a broad shoulder.

Porthos.

He ignored the evidence his fingers were sending him, the stiffness, the chill, as he hauled one-handed on Porthos's shoulder, pulling him over onto his back. Even the dagger still protruding from his chest Athos could've ignored, denied.

But he couldn't hide from the blank stare, the warmth extinguished from beloved brown eyes.

Porthos was gone.

Athos doubled over from the pain of it, fingers fisting helplessly in the thick leather of Porthos's jacket. The tunnel seemed to be spinning, and he couldn't keep up with it. With trembling fingers, he reached out and pulled the dagger free, sucking in a harsh breath at the squelching sound it made. He dropped it and let it sink into the mud.

Athos pressed a hopeless hand to Porthos's chest, as if somehow he could will his heart into beating once more. He heard a soft keening noise and realized it was coming from his own throat. Still breathing raggedly, he bowed his head until his forehead rested on Porthos's still chest, hiding the terrible sight while his hand stole up and gently closed Porthos's eyes.

He didn't know how long he sat like that before he felt capable of moving again. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in the mud beside Porthos, but he couldn't. He still had to find Aramis. He had to know.

Athos didn't have to search for long. Aramis lay only a few feet behind Porthos, as if the larger man had been trying to protect him when he'd fallen. He looked impossibly small amid the muck, mud and blood smearing his skin, his hat missing. Athos crawled over to him, unable to muster the strength to rise.

A ragged hole had been punched through Aramis's jacket, just over his breast. Blood still seeped through it. Caught somewhere between agony and numbness, Athos reached out and laid a hand over the terrible wound.

Blood seeped into his glove, and Athos tore it off with his teeth before his brain processed what had just happened,

The blood was still warm.

"Aramis," he gasped, the name torn from his chest as if someone had reached within him and plucked out it out. He dropped his hand to Aramis's neck, willing it to stop shaking.

Beneath his fingers, something beat, weak and slow.

A pulse.

Athos tore his injured arm free of the sling, ignoring the pain as he reached down to cup Aramis's jaw between his hands. His throat seemed to have sealed shut, so he tapped his fingers against Aramis's cheek, praying desperately to a god he didn't believe in.

Nothing happened. Athos bowed his head, choking on a breath as he tried to fight the tide of grief in his chest.

Aramis's cheek twitched beneath his finger.

Athos looked up to find weary brown eyes squinting at him.

"Ath's." His name emerged as the merest whisper, nothing more than a breath, and yet his own breath caught at it.

"Aramis," he whispered, easing the broken figure free of the clinging mud and into his lap. Aramis's eyes had slipped closed again, but he turned his face to Athos's shoulder when he was settled.

"P'th's?" Aramis breathed, twitching weakly in his arms as if to look behind him to where Porthos lay.

"He's fine," Athos said immediately. "He's fine, and you'll be fine, you'll see." His hand hovered uncertainly over the wound on Aramis's chest. He didn't know what to do.

Aramis finally succeeded in twisting his head so he could see past Athos. He found himself absurdly grateful that he'd closed Porthos's eyes, so Aramis could not immediately spot his lie.

Aramis slumped back in his arms, breath hitching in his chest, and Athos pulled him closer. For a moment, he thought he could feel Aramis shaking. Then he realized it was him.

"See? He's fine, and you're going to be alright," he said. He knew he was babbling now, but he couldn't stop. "I'm going to take care of you."  
The corner of Aramis's mouth twitched up in an echo of a smile. "Liar," he whispered, blood flecking his lips.

"No, I'm not-" Athos began, but he stopped speaking at once so he wouldn't drown out what Aramis was still trying to say.

"S'funny," Aramis whispered. "I knew I w's dead all 'long, but Porthos," he drew out the name as if to make sure he said it properly this time, "he still went f'rst."

"You're not going to die," Athos said, trying to sound firm. His voice trembled on the last word.

Brown eyes blinked up at him sadly. "I am," Aramis murmured, his voice stronger now.  
"I won't let you," Athos snarled, clutching Aramis still tighter until the smaller man groaned with pain.

"Don't be sad, _mon cher_ ," Aramis whispered, trying to lift a hand towards Athos's face. He lacked the strength and it fell back, but it was enough to make Athos notice the tears rolling down his own cheeks.

"I give the orders around here," Athos mumbled, but his voice sounded weak and tremulous even to his own ears.

Aramis chuckled wetly. "Even you can't stop this," he murmured. "It's okay. I chose this."

"No," Athos growled. "Stop trying to say goodbye."

Aramis smiled sadly at him. "It's the only thing left to say," he whispered. A shudder went through him and Athos pressed him closer.

"Don't do this," he said, not caring that he was begging. He'd do more than beg if it meant he could keep just one of them.

"Miss you," Aramis breathed, warm brown eyes slipping shut.

They didn't open again.

"No!" Athos howled, shaking the limp form furiously. "Come back. Breathe. Aramis, please." His howls quieted until he was whispering once more. "Come back. Don't do this to me. Not both of you."

He doubled over, pressing his face into Aramis's neck, hiding from a reality he simply couldn't bear. There was no sound except his hitching breaths, echoing off the damp walls.

"I need you," he whispered against the rapidly cooling skin.

There was no response.

Athos sat there until the torch was guttering, until Aramis had gone cold in his arms and he could no longer pretend he was holding anything other than a corpse. Without releasing his grip, he rose shakily to his feet, staggering back the few steps it took to deposit Aramis next to Porthos. That done, he dropped to the mud beside them.

A thousand thoughts and memories were tearing through his mind, but the one that loomed over them all was _I can't do this_.

One of the bodies lying nearby had a pistol still thrust through its belt. Athos reached for it, unhooking it from the belt and pulling it towards him, careful to keep it clear of the mud. This time, his hand did not tremble.

He sat back again and laid his left hand on Porthos's chest. Aramis had fallen slightly atop him, and Athos felt vaguely that was how it ought to be. Only D'Artagnan was missing, and even through his grief Athos could still feel grateful for that, that one of them could still escape this. He hated to leave the boy alone, but he had Constance. Their love would keep him whole. Two pieces of Athos's heart, the lights that guided him in the darkness, had already fled this world, and he had to follow them.

He hoped D'Artagnan wouldn't be the one to find them.

Athos leaned over and pressed a clumsy kiss, first to Porthos's forehead, then Aramis's. The barrel felt cool against his temple.

"Forgive me," he whispered.

The gunshot echoed through the tunnel, but Athos didn't hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. I don't have one written, but if anyone was interested in a D'Artagnan-centric epilogue I could try my hand at it.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a follow up chapter about Athos. It might actually be worse than this. Feel free to scream at me in the comments.


End file.
